


Go Home Runnin’

by Scribblesinink (Scribbler)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-07
Updated: 2007-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:43:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbler/pseuds/Scribblesinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stood stock still, just inside the doorway. He'd grown pale as a sheet, and his eyes were round with what Dean could only call horror. "We're not staying here," Sam hissed, not looking at Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Home Runnin’

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Real Life place. More info at the end. Unbetaed.

Midnight was approaching swiftly, the moon a thin sliver of light among the wispy clouds and sparkling stars dotting the New England sky. The Impala roared through the darkness, engine rumbling evenly, tires humming on the blacktop. Dean rubbed at his eyes, gritty and sore with lack of sleep, and glanced sideways at Sam. His brother sat stiffly, awkwardly, a clear indication that he still hurt from when the poltergeist in southern Ohio had gotten the drop on him before Dean managed to distract it. And for someone of Sam's size, being forced to curl up in the passenger seat of the Impala for hours on end wasn't exactly conducive to healing fresh bruises, abused ligaments and sore muscles.

But it couldn't be helped; they'd made too much noise fighting off the poltergeist, and someone had called the cops. They'd had to bail; they couldn't risk Henriksen sniffing out their trail again. So, they'd been sneaking east along country roads for most of the past two days, catnapping in the car whenever the road blurred before Dean's eyes and the Impala seemed to grow a will of her own.

Still, enough was enough. Whatever the cops had found, their trail would be cold by now, and Dean was determined they sleep in a bed again tonight. Sam needed to heal, and frankly, he himself craved for some comfort as well while catching his Z's.

Problem was, there wasn't a place around that still had rooms available. They'd been looking since dusk, but every bed between here and the Canadian border seemed full with locals unwilling to drive home drunk after their harvest festivals, and tourists from all over the world that had come leaf-gawking. They'd seen one _No Vacancy_-sign after another, and Dean was getting desperate. Another night in the car probably wouldn't kill them, but it sure as hell wouldn't do much to improve his mood, either. Or Sam's. And he and Sam were fighting enough as it was…

A sign beside the road glowed in the headlights. _Red Oak Inn, 2 miles_. Beside the words was a picture of a majestic tree that Dean suspected was a red oak. He smiled grimly. They'd left the main tourist towns behind by now, so perhaps their luck'd finally turn.

A mile and a half later later, another sign directed visitors looking for the Red Oak Inn onto a narrow road left of the highway. Dean hit the blinker and turned into the byway. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels, and the car suddenly plunged into darkness when the still-thick canopy blacked out the light from the moon. Tree trunks loomed like sentinels in the headlights until at last, a couple hundred yards of cautious maneuvering later, the forest opened up and the road gave way to a wide-open, well-lit front yard lined with flower beds. The Red Oak Inn turned out to be a historic mansion with white clapboard walls and gabled dormers; the warm, welcoming glow of lamps spilled from partially draped windows and a lantern hung above the door to greet new visitors.

Dean stopped the car and killed the engine. Sam glanced up at the inn.

"Dean, I think this is a bit above budget," he said.

Normally, Dean'd have agreed. They'd spent the last of the cash he won in Toledo on two greasy burgers for lunch, and the pair of still-valid credit cards in his wallet were close to maxing out. Grimacing, he reached across Sam and poked through the contents of the dashboard drawer until he found what he'd been looking for. "Emergency backup," he told Sam, holding up a Gold Card. The gold laminate glistened in the lamplight spilling in through the windshield. "I say this qualifies."

It bespoke of Sam's condition that his brother didn't utter even a token protest. Dean shot him a worried glance. "C'mon, let's get us some beds," he said, opening the door and climbing out. He caught a whiff of himself and wrinkled his nose. "And a shower," he added below his breath.

A few minutes later they walked up the front steps of the Red Oak Inn's entrance. Dean pushed open the door and went in ahead of Sam. Inside, rich oriental carpets muffled their footsteps, and some kind of dark wood paneling covered the walls, the wood's surface polished until it gleamed in the glow of the lamps. An empty receptionist's desk was situated at the far end of the lobby, and Dean walked up to it.

It wasn't until he reached for the little bell to announce their presence that he realized Sam wasn't right behind him any longer. Dean turned. "Sam?"

His brother was standing stock still, just inside the doorway. He'd grown pale as a sheet, and his eyes were round with what Dean could only call horror. What the hell?

Dean went back. "Sammy?"

"We're not staying here," Sam hissed, not looking at Dean.

"What? Why not?" Dean glanced around, trying to determine what had spooked Sam so, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He looked back up at his brother. "Is it a vision?"

"No," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Told you, I don't have those anymore."

"Then what?"

Sam's gaze skittered around, as if to see if anyone was near enough to hear. But the lobby was still empty; nobody had yet been alerted to their presence. "Clowns," Sam murmured out of the side of his mouth, as if speaking the word out loud might summon some demonic jester.

"Clow—what?" Dean exclaimed.

"Over there." Sam pointed. Dean followed with his eyes. In the corner, next to the staircase, someone had put up a collection of antique dolls, positioned in various innocuous poses. Dean squinted. Each doll had a painted face with a red nose and—He finally understood: each doll was a clown. And his brother had this weird phobia about clowns, had had it ever since he was a little kid. Not that Dad'd let Sam get away with it; there were enough real monsters to be afraid of without adding irrational fears into the mix.

Dean wasn't sure whether to be amused or exasperated. "Christ, Sam, what—"

"Look, Dean," Sam said. "I don't care what you think. You can stay here, but I'm not eleven anymore, and Dad isn't here, so I… I'll go sleep in the car."

Sam turned on his heel, pulled open the door and stepped back outside. Dean hesitated a moment and glanced with longing at the thick runners that led up the stairs to the inn's second floor, thinking of soft mattresses and hot water and cool sheets. Son of a bitch, times like these he'd really like to smack Sam. His brother, who didn't bat an eye in the face of werewolves or zombies, turned into a gibbering little boy at the sight of a bunch of inanimate dolls with red noses.

For an instant, he was tempted to take Sam up on the offer. But then Dean sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, hefted his bag a little higher onto his shoulder and followed Sam out. No matter how much he'd like to get Sam to outgrow this wacky fear of clowns, right now making sure Sam got a good night's sleep was more important.

There'd be another place to stay further along the road. A place without clowns.

***

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently reminded of a [photo](http://www.flickr.com/photos/mooncross/484816018/) I took back in 2003, of a display of dolls in an inn's lobby in Nova Scotia. Looking at the photo again, I remembered thinking that there was something creepy about them. _Then _I noticed they were all clowns, and recalled Sam Winchester's coulrophobia. The rest, as they say, is history…
> 
> Title based on lyrics for _Everybody Loves A Clown_ by Gary Lewis &amp; The Playboys


End file.
